Junior Year
by really.need.a.hobby
Summary: A series of one shots, giving a glimpse into the fleeting, unimportant moments that make up adolescence.
1. Move In Day

Author's note: No promises as to the quality of this work, or how often it'll be updated, but I had some random thoughts floating in my head that I thought I should get out. After all, not every moment in life fits into a neat narrative (not that I've ever mastered neat narratives to begin with).

So, I hope somebody enjoys this.

Move In Day

The sun beaming in, Charlie reached up and adjusted the visor of his Explorer, straining to see the stoplight ahead. To his left stood a drab, 4-floor apartment with tinfoil over the windows, courtesy of the paranoid meth cooks who favored that building. To his right stood EZ Pawn, with the flickering neon sign shaped like a diamond.

.

He'd always liked that sign as a kid. By adult standards, it was garish reminder of the neighborhood's suffering, but at six, that huge flashing diamond was a sight to behold; the rich cakeeaters over in Edina might have had circular driveways and swimming pools designed to look like tiny lakes, but his neighborhood had the EZ Pawn sign. Even from a couple of buildings down, he could see it from his bedroom window, giving him a welcoming nightlight as he drifted off to sleep in his favorite old North Stars T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, the sound of Casey scrubbing dishes and pouring herself a well deserved glass of wine in the next room.

Besides, EZ Pawn was a nice place. That was where people with _good_ stuff went.

.

KwiK Pawn was where your mother went with a broken toaster in one arm and an outgrown pair of rollerblades in the other, trying to make enough money buy a loaf of bread and maybe a gallon of gas so that she wouldn't have to walk the two miles to work the next day.

KwiK Pawn was genuinely sad. EZ Pawn really _was_ glamorous…for a place where men down the street cooked meth in crumbling apartments and rich suburbanites drove around in shiny Lexuses and BMWs, looking for drugs.

.

He didn't _have_ to drive through the old neighborhood, of course. A person could stay on the interstate the entire way from Coon Rapids to Edina, never seeing a bit of the city, except at 70 miles an hour from a highway overpass.

That wasn't Charlie's way, though. He liked to be reminded of his days as a kid, planting purses filled with dog poop on the side of the road and playing hockey on the pond with old copies of _The Minneapolis Tribune_ repurposed into padding.

.

In many ways, life was easier now—he went to a good school in an affluent suburb. His stepdad had finally had a new job; one with union benefits and a large enough paycheck to finance a modest midecentury ranch over in Coon Rapids. His neighbors now were people with minivans and above ground pools, nary a pawn shop in sight. There were no entitled pricks in Mercedes sedans driving too fast through his neighborhood, headed back to Edina and Eden Prairie with passengers doing lines of coke in the back.

Still, it had been a happy childhood, and in contrast to Eden Hall's whitewashed perfection, he had a soft spot for it.

The light turning green, he made his way through that intersection and the next, turning left onto Hennepin Avenue. There, the neighborhood changed; all at once, boarded up buildings and check cashing places gave way to 11,000 sq. foot colonials and detached five car garages, a mile and several million dollars dividing the two worlds.

.

He'd long thought it a strange irony that the richest and poorest of the city lived within two minutes of one another, while the families with Tauruses and mortgages lived as far away from the poverty as possible, eager to put half an hour and fifteen interstate exits between themselves and the reminders of what could happen if someone got sick, or an equity firm decided to restructure lower management.

In one of their darker moments, Fulton had once speculated that the rich lived where they did just so they could watch the suffering from their third floor sitting rooms, laughing as middle school boys shot one another over $6.42.

Of course, they all agreed, that probably _would_ seem funnier from the safety of a mahogany paneled library, a nice glass of scotch in hand.

There were probably lots of things in life that were pretty funny from that vantage point.

.

Past the curved, cobblestone driveways and four acre yards with gently rolling hills, Charlie turned again, this time onto Eden Road. There, the houses once again started to shrink, this time giving way not to graffiti and decrepit bodegas, but to ranches and split levels. Houses not that unlike his back in Coon Rapids, except that the people in _these_ ranches and split levels worked at banks, or over at the university, rather than behind the wheels of forklifts and 18-wheelers. As he went by a familiar grey split level with a blue and yellow Breck Mustangs yard flag, he mustered all of the self-control he had not to roll down the window and yell "Suck my dick" at the strawberry blonde mowing the front lawn.

After all, he didn't care what anyone else said. Larson was a prick.

.

Turning past the imposing wrought iron gates, and driving beneath the canopy of leafy old oaks, he finally arrived at Hetheridge Hall, the three-story limestone dormitory that he'd be calling home for the next nine months. Already parked in the unloading circle he saw a white Range Rover with Texas plates, a trim blonde in bedazzled jeans lifting Rubbermaid containers out the back.

" _Heh, who would have thought Dwayne was the real cakeeater of the bunch?"_ Charlie laughed, shaking his head at the irony of the fact that Travis Robertson was in his third year of law school at SMU, while the _other_ cakeeater's brother sold coke by the KwiK Pawn.

 _And does that mean Dwayne IS their Scott…?_

"Howdy, roommate!" Dwayne greeted a moment later, the top of his cowboy hat peeking out from over the tower of boxes he was unloading from the back of his mother's SUV.

"Hey Cowboy! Ready for another year of the preppies?"

Charlie smiled, still trying to suppress his laughter at the incongruity of Dwayne's Wranglers and boots next to the immaculate British SUV and the heavily Botoxed Tammy Robertson.

 _Pretty sure those boobs are new._

Before long, the boys were making small talk and catching up on one another's summer adventures as they headed towards the dorm, each loaded down with duffel bags and plastic bins. Ahead, they could see two Hispanic movers struggling to carry a mattress up the narrow steps, both men cursing the rich gringos in Spanish as the one in back narrowly avoided falling to his death after the first one started to stumble.

 _What kind of spoiled cakeeater decides they're too good for the dorm's mattresses?_ Charlie grumbled to himself, unable to _quite_ shake his resentment at the affluence of his classmates and their country club memberships. Of his classmates with their pressed polos, and the casual ease that came with knowing that they lived in a world designed just for them.

Reaching the top of the stairs, his arms burned from the weight of the Rubbermaid bins; all of those pounds of books and VHS tapes no longer seeming like the great idea they had been two days earlier. As he passed the second door on his right, his fingers threatening to give way any moment, he found finally his answer to the mystery of the Hispanic movers.

 _Heh, I should have guessed_.

Setting his storage bins on the ground, he looked his old friend up and down.

Even in a school _full_ of privileged blue bloods, Adam had once again managed to take the cake.

As all of the other blonde, WASPy boys lugged their L.L Bean duffels up flight after flight of stairs, their faces red and their T-shirts drenched, Adam just stood there in his khakis and a crisp white button down, directing movers on where everything should go.

"Seriously?" Charlie cracked, lifting an amused eyebrow.

 _Who does he think he is? The Grand Emperor of Assholeville_.

"What? I have a bad back. I need a comfortable bed."

"Uh huh. And that explains the rug and life-sized knight, too?" Charlie asked, casting a sideways glance towards the set of knight's armor and Persian carpet that the movers were adjusting a few feet away.

Adam shrugged, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"The room wouldn't be the same without Suge Knight."

"That part is true." Charlie agreed, his face softening. "Without him, someone might think this room belongs to someone normal."

"Hey now! I _am_ normal."

"Notice how all these other people are carrying their _own_ expensive preppy shit up the stairs?" Charlie pointed out, gesturing over towards Trevor Forbes and Patrick Ellington trying to fit a 50-inch TV through their doorway. "Even here, you're a freak."

"Well yeah, but how am I supposed to carry a 200 lb. knight up the stairs? He's really awkward to carry—I cut my hand open just stumbling into him last week."

" _This is what girls fawn over?"_ Charlie thought to himself, shaking his head.

 _No wonder I spend so much time single._

"Yeah man. Not really helping your case here."

"Whatever. You know you're just jealous."

 _I mean, kind of. Yeah._

"Yup. Dying."

Picking back up his Rubbermaid bin, he made his trek down towards the other end of the hallway, suddenly very thankful for Dwayne's relative normalcy.

He could tolerate Garth Brooks and TCU football. Even the giant Texas flag hanging above Dwayne's bed and the cow skull on the bookshelf were forgivable, though the cow skull had freaked him out the first few nights the year before.

That was all far preferable to a roommate who considered Persian rugs, knight's armor, and custom mattresses to be standard dorm room items.

 _He'll probably have poor Guy eating caviar and talking about the bull market by the end of the week_.

" _Of course,"_ He realized, staring at the plastic covered mattress on his own bed, _"I'll probably also have to hear about the bull market, but at least THAT bull market has actual bulls_."


	2. Ill-Fated Love

…

Ill-Fated Love

"So, how was your summer?" Adam asked, smoothing out a wrinkle in his sheets as he made the bed. "You enjoy Montreal?"

Outside their door, the late arrivals could still be heard struggling with boxes and Rubbermaid bins, the smell of Lysol heavy in the air. Inside, Adam and Guy were unpacking bins of their own, their dorm room no longer the empty shell it had been just two hours before.

Already, the sides of the room were starting to look like their respective owners. On Guy's end, stolen beer signs leaned against the wall next to a Habs poster; a stuffed bear from Connie sitting atop his dresser. Over on Adam's side, 'Suge Knight' was dressed in a Ducks jersey, and the wall beside his bed had been covered in a tasteful pastiche; old childhood photos layered against colorful art. As Adam made his bed, Guy began the process of hanging and folding the clothes he'd crammed into a duffle bag the night before.

"Yeah, good stuff." Guy replied, transferring his treasured Tommy Hilfiger button down onto a hanger. "Apparently my dad is getting divorced and losing his house."

"Didn't he just get married like, three years ago?"

"Exactly."

"What happened?" Adam asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Well, this is my dad we're talking about. He's the one person worse at relationships than my mom."

"That's a real dream team you've got going there."

"Seriously." Guy sighed, his shoulders slumped.

For a moment, the two went back to putting up their stuff in silence; Adam fluffing a pillow while Guy folded jeans. Next door, they could hear the Bash Brothers blasting Metallica, strains of Fade to Black coming through the walls.

"I think this one takes the cake." Guy continued, reaching for a pair of Levis. "He decided to refinance his house. At a _higher_ interest rate."

"Nice."

"Yeah, turns out he had a thing for the loan officer."

"Always a good reason to do things." Adam nodded, reaching up to straighten a Day-Glo painting of Ronald Reagan. "Pretty sure a hot Bauer rep is the main reason my dad signed us up for hockey."

"Better than a hot rep for the Ice Capades."

"No shit. Though seeing Scott in one of those glittery outfits might be worth it…"

Guy grimaced, the mental image of a hairy, slightly overweight Scott Banks in sequin spandex now etched in his brain.

 _Helen Keller doesn't know how lucky she was._

"Someone needs to thank that Bauer rep."

"I'm guessing the commission was thanks enough." Adam pointed out. "That was some pro-level gear for a toddler."

"Phil Banks in love. Not something a person hears about every day…"

"It happens. It's never with my mom, and it never ends well, but it happens."

"Yeah, that's one thing our dads have in common."

Soon, the two went back to straightening up; Guy turning his sights to the bag of laundry he forgot to wash before leaving home, while Adam organized his closet by color. Arranging a row of blue polos, Adam paused and turned back towards Guy.

"So was she at least good looking?"

"Who?" Guy asked, his focus now on the stench of his old gym shorts that had spent too long baking in a hot car.

 _One day, I'm going make enough money to live somewhere with a washer and dryer._

"The loan officer."

"She had _Ellen_ hair, and gums that covered her teeth."

"Damn."

"I really hope I don't end up like that in another twenty years."

"I hope we don't end up like either of our dads."

* * *

Author's note: Yes, in retrospect, this scene absolutely could have been tacked onto Chapter 1. It is, after all, quite literally a continuation of 'Move in Day'. But, as short as it is, it _felt_ separate. And so, a sad little midget chapter it shall be.*

*No offense to actual midgets.


	3. Tryouts

Tryouts

The first few weeks of school, Eden Hall seemed to be basked in a magical glow.

All around, the hectic world of suburban adulthood whisked by in a blur, but there on the campus of Eden Hall, iron gates and lofty oaks separated students from the concerns of outside life.

To Charlie in particular, school was finally living up to the promises of the brochures: The trees were were green, the birds were chirping, and classwork hadn't yet ramped up for the year. Their aging wildebeest of a science teacher had been replaced by a cute brunette right out of her master's program, and his personal life was going better than ever; he and Linda back together after a breakup their sophomore year.

Best of all, this was finally going to be _the_ _year_.

After two long years of being broken up between JV and Varsity, the entire team would get to fly together, this time as the Varsity Ducks.

Not only would the team be reunited, they'd finally get to hold their rightful place at Eden Hall, no longer being overshadowed by a bunch of snobs in khakis and wool blazers.

 _This will finally be **our** school._

...

As the trees faded to yellow and orange, however, Charlie noticed a change.

Quietly, a cloud had formed across the hall.

Whereas he and Dwayne were still arguing over whether to listen to George Strait or R.E.M. and doing algebra over the sounds of TCU crowds cheering on TV, there was something foreboding about Adam and Guy.

.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it-both were perfectly pleasant, and this wasn't like that mysterious period freshman year where Adam only spoke in one and two word sentences-but still, something wasn't quite right. Both seemed preoccupied, and neither one particularly enthusiastic when the topic of hockey came up.

In fact, the more excited he grew, the quieter Adam became.

He'd notice the glances between Adam and Guy, and the way that Guy would always try to shift the subject from hockey to the weather or schoolwork. He kept telling himself not to worry-that this was probably about the pressure Phil was notorious for putting on his younger son, or perhaps a bit of Germaine family drama. Still, something didn't sit quite right.

There was _something_ they weren't telling him.

…

"So…do their contracts actually say they'll get to play hockey?"

Guy and Adam sat on the other side of the Lexan, watching the tryouts going on below. The sound of pucks bouncing and freshly sharpened skates cutting across the ice filled the air as the two sat back in the bleachers, Guy biting his nails as he watched his girlfriend get flattened by guys twice her size.

.

Players who had been on Varsity's first and second line the year before were exempt from the tryouts, leaving former third line players, JV, and new freshmen to battle it out for three long days in an attempt to show Wilson and Orion what they were made of.

Now in the second day, all of Adam's fears were being confirmed as he sat back and watched, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.

.

He, Guy, and Julie were safe, having all been first or second line the year before. The two bash brothers would have to suffer the indignity of tryouts, having played third line most of the season, but there was no real risk either one would be replaced, particularly with their size advantage.

Charlie was a shoe-in, the decision to keep him on JV as a sophomore more a matter of team unity than talent, and another year of getting used to the ice had turned Russ into a solid player.

Dwayne and Averman were shaping up to be the sorts of guys whose careers would have little hope of lasting beyond high school, but by high school standards, they were doing _okay_. If nothing else, the extra year of puberty was buoying them above their underclassman competitors. Luis had the potential to go either way, having mastered everything but stopping.

On the other hand, Goldberg had continued to do the bare minimum, and it showed; the sophomore goalie Jared Kemp easily surpassing him in skill.

Connie and Ken, meanwhile, had both put forth an admirable effort, but size just wasn't on either one's side. Connie in particular was dwarfed by boys who had ten inches and ninety pounds on her.

.

"No. I'm sure Bombay will keep the scholarships safe, but that doesn't mean Wilson has to let them on Varsity."

Guy nodded.

"I'm sure Orion wishes he could keep them on JV." Adam sighed, taking another drink of his coffee. "But his hands are going to be tied. He's got to worry about developing the next crop of players for Varsity."

The two sat back against the bleachers, a sense of resignation overtaking them both as they watched Luis crash into the boards and Ken get flipped by a freshman who already towered over him.

"This sucks."

"Yup."

A few minutes later, Adam looked down at his black sport watch.

"Want to go steal beer from my parents' refrigerator?"

"Sure."

* * *

"Can't you do something about this?"

"What would I be able to do?" Adam shrugged, looking over at Charlie. "Do I _look_ like Coach Wilson?"

An hour earlier, the roster had been posted. Looking at the lineup, Charlie's heart sank—there would be no great Duck reunion. Not only had Goldberg, Connie, Luis, and Ken not made Varsity; they hadn't made the lineup at all.

.

His original flock of Ducks had been decimated; he, Guy, and Averman now the only ones left from the old D-5 days of goofing around in alleyways and making do with thrift shop football helmets.

The new players were fine, but they just weren't the same. Not withstanding some of the assholes on Varsity, even guys like Adam and Dwayne would never _understand_ what it was like what it was like to be the underdog; to rely on your teammates for more than just passing the puck.

.

And of course, he was now standing face to face with that other world, having gone across the hall to talk with the one person who he hoped could fix things.

"I don't know." Charlie admitted, "But I mean, he likes you."

As he spoke, he couldn't help but think about how comfortable Adam's mattress was. About the way that he could sink into the down bedding. About the Persian rug below, and about how Suge Knight, the set of knight's armor a few feet away, was dressed in a Ferragamo tie and Maui Jim sunglasses.

 _It must be nice to be a cakeeater._

"I don't think he likes anybody."

"Of course he does. _You_ didn't have to try out last year."

"I couldn't. The doctors hadn't cleared me to play yet."

"So?"

This time, the room grew quiet as Adam took a deep breath. Hidden beneath his shirt sleeve was the scar that stretched the inside of his forearm; a reminder that at seventeen, he already had enough titanium in his body to set off metal detectors.

 _"Yeah Charlie."_ He thought, fidgeting with the clasp of his watch _. "Getting to skip tryouts in light of a shattered arm and brain injury was a real dream come true_. _We should all be so fortunate_."

"Again, not to state the obvious, but I _couldn't_ try out. That wasn't favoritism. That wasn't me not _wanting_ to try out. I didn't have a choice in the matter."

"And you think Coach Wilson would have done the same for anybody else?"

"I'd already proven myself the year before."

"You were third line." Charlie reminded him, sinking further and further into the down pillow behind him. "Fulton and Portman were third line last year, and they still had to try out."

Adam clenched his jaw, suddenly understanding his dad's tendency to speak only through yelled profanity.

 _He's not trying to be an asshole._

 _He's not trying to be an asshole._

"Again, they _could_ try out. Trust me, tryouts would have been more fun than physical therapy."

"I'm just saying, Coach Wilson likes you. Surely you can do something..."

"I can't make him change the team roster."

"But this isn't fair." Charlie pouted, his arms crossed. "They came here to play hockey. They should get to play."

"That's...not how this works.

 _This isn't a Disney movie._

 _Things don't always end in a happily ever after._

"We aren't talking about City League peewees." He continued, shaking his head. "You don't get to play just because you go here and you _want_ to play."

"Easy for you to say. Your friends always _do_ get to play."

Inside, Adam could feel his blood pressure rising.

Somehow, even after five years, Charlie persisted in his belief that he was the sole friend to the rest of the Ducks, logic be damned.

"Are you seriously that stupid?"

"What?"

"Do you really think you're the only one who's friends with them?" Adam asked, looking down at Charlie accusingly. "Because pretty sure I'm friends with them, too. I mean, Connie visited me in the hospital more than you did..."

 _Crap._

Charlie sat back against the wall, rolling his eyes.

He realized that Adam _might_ have had a point. Still, it wasn't his fault that he was stuck in detention the entire time that Adam was hospitalized. Adam just really should have picked a more convenient time to drive off a bridge...

"I'm just saying, if it was Julie who didn't make the team, or your beloved Larson, I'm pretty sure you'd be more upset than you are right now!"

"Well, yeah. If Julie didn't make the team, I'd be upset because she's _better than Goldberg or Jared Kemp_. Like, way better. As for Larson, he'd probably be in the same boat as the rest of them if he were here. He's not that good."

Charlie's eyes grew wide at the statement.

True or not, _saying_ that one's best friend wasn't very good at hockey was right up there with clubbing baby seals.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean 'what's wrong with me'?" Adam shrugged, oblivious to his transgression.

"Larson's your best friend."

"Yeah. So?"

"So how can you say that about him?"

"Say what?"

"That he's not that good at hockey."

Adam just chuckled.

"Well of course he's not. He's the kind of guy who plays hockey to hang out with his friends and have something to put on a college application. He's not bad or anything, but there's a reason he's playing for Breck."

"That's still an asshole thing to say."

"I thought you hated the guy?"

"Yeah. He's a cakeeating prick. But he's still your best friend..."

Shaking his head, Adam walked over to his closet to grab a towel from the hook; the discussion with Charlie having continued long enough.

"I mean, pretty sure the dude knows he's not going to the NHL or anything. But is there anything else I can do for you? Because as thrilling as this discussion has been, I'm supposed to meet Julie in half an hour, and I could really use a shower first..."

As Adam took off his watch, Charlie pried himself from the bed, dragging his feet along the Persian rug his whole way out.

 _Seriously. Who has shit like this in a dorm room?_

"You do realize that you're way too young to be this curmudgeonly, right?" Charlie joked, stopping to muss Suge Knight's tie. "I mean, you're already worse that Gary, and dude's got like, 30 years of bitterness on you."

Not yet quite to the door, he stopped and grabbed Suge Knight's sunglasses for good measure; both knowing full and well that he'd return them to Adam the next morning.

"Yeah, well, at least you've been paying attention in English. Dumbass."

"Jerk."

Before Charlie could make it to the safety of the hallway, Adam grabbed a down-filled pillow and sent it sailing across the room; nailing Charlie in the head.

"I hate you."

"Don't worry." Adam assured him with a one fingered salute. "The feeling's mutual."


	4. The Broken Sink

The Broken Sink

"Today's lunch menu will include meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans—"

Julie stretched her legs out in front of her and yawned.

Every morning, from 7:50-7:59, the school's broadcast journalism club would cover Eden Hall's "hardest hitting topics", and every morning, Julie's patience would grow thinner.

Eden Hall was not a place known for either excitement or great investigative journalism.

In the past two years, the biggest story the Broadcast Journalism club had covered was a three part series on whether the school cafeteria needed to add a salad bar. (The panel of reporters agreed that a salad option _would_ be healthier, but that it would be hard to determine how many types of dressing to offer. Fat free ranch remained a contentious issue.)

"A reminder from Dean Buckley: Pajama pants are, and will continue to be, a violation of the school dress code. They are not to be worn outside of the dormitories, and they are not considered suitable attire for the dining hall…"

 _"And in other news, the grass is still green."_ Julie thought to herself, looking down at her watch.

7:58

"And, in one final announcement from the operations department, the second floor men's restroom sink in Schlagel Hall is now operational again."

 _So glad they took the time to tell us that. I know I'd been losing sleep over the matter._

"So…does that mean the bathroom sink hadn't been working?" Connie whispered, her nose scrunched.

Turning back to her physics notes, Julie ignored Connie's question, more concerned with her upcoming quiz than the school's plumbing idiosyncrasies.

"Yeah, no, it hasn't worked in like, a month." Thad Coker chimed in, leaning across his desk towards Connie.

Glimpsing over, Julie groaned as she saw Thad's eyes light up, a rare opportunity bestow his manly knowledge finally upon him.

 _Damn you, Charlie_.

 _Damn you._

Shaking her head, she thought back to their exile of Adam freshman year, and the resulting Thad-ification.

.

When Charlie tried to close the ranks, he ended up pushing his beloved bro crush right out of the flock. Without anyone else to turn to, Adam had turned to the Garretts and Larsons of Eden Hall…or, as they were otherwise known, Guys With Roman Numerals After Their Names And Very Little Else.

Two years later, the Ducks were still dealing with an ironic consequence—when Adam came back, his Eddie Bauer-clad infantry followed. Never again would their lives be free from guys who were _really_ proud to say that they lived in Eden Prairie and drove used Acuras.

.

"Eww."

"Yeah, it was like, not cool."

"Eww, no. That's like, definitely not cool."

"Yeah, this school is so gay sometimes."

 _Oh my God, Thad. You're the reason this school is gay. Girls are literally turning gay so they'll never have to date you._

"It really is."

Before long, the two had moved along to a story about Thad's family's trip to Cancun a year before, and Julie went back to her equation, happy to drown out Thad's epiphany that "Corona is like, so much better Keystone".

Eventually, she figured, this _would_ create another fight between Connie and Guy, but that moment wasn't yet upon her. And in the meantime, she was really more concerned about the physics quiz.

….

That afternoon, all of the Ducks met to hang out in Charlie and Dwayne's room, taking advantage of one of their last free afternoons before hockey ramped up for the season.

Though she could think of things she would _rather_ do, she dragged along a certain preppy, aware that a bit of Duck bonding would be good for him. Together, the two sat cuddled up together beside Charlie's bed, while Averman and Goldberg wrestled one another for the Nintendo controller nearby.

As the two nerds exchanged mock insults, Julie snuggled in closer to Adam, happy to get lost in his cashmere sweater. Her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and the rest of the world seemed to disappear; her fellow Ducks fading into a haze of laundry detergent and good cologne.

"How do you always pick such good sweaters?" She whispered, stroking the bottom of his sleeve.

"Well, I'm not that good looking of a guy. I had to do _something_ to make girls want to touch me."

"It worked." She chuckled, all but melting as she looked up into his beautiful blue eyes, and that smile that always made her weak in the knees.

 _He really is too cute._

"I can tell.

Putting an arm around her, he held her tight as the fight for the controller ensued just a few feet away; the Mario theme playing in the background.

"Do you want to go out to dinner tonight?"

"Isn't tonight lasa—"

Before Julie could finish her sentence, she felt something cold and wet soaking her pant leg, the stickiness working its way up them hem of her Calvin Kleins. Looking down, she saw an overturned can of Dr. Pepper, courtesy of Averman and Goldberg's wrestling match.

"Dang it, Goldberg!"

"Wha—sorry, my bad." He apologized, his olive skin hiding the flush in his cheeks.

Reaching for a dirty towel out of Dwayne's laundry hamper, he started to mop the linoleum, refusing to look up at her gaze.

…

As Julie got up to go to the bathroom, Goldberg continued mopping the floor, her tone replaying in his head.

…

Meanwhile, back the in the bathroom, Julie dabbed at her jeans with a paper towel, more concerned with whether to take Adam up on his dinner offer than anything else. As she reached over to the sink to wet another paper towel, however, her mind suddenly went back to the events of that morning.

 _The restroom sink in Schlagel Hall is now operational again._

Restroom.

Sink.

Operational.

Again.

 _"Eww!"_ She realized, her own face now curling up in disgust. " _Eww eww eww eww!_ "

Suddenly, Connie's reaction wasn't just Connie being Connie.

It was, in fact, a very justified reaction to the fact that the guys at Eden Hall hadn't been washing their hands for the past month.

In her mind, she could just picture the hundreds of misfit guys at the school; a veritable parade of fat, smelly, and weird adolescents. She thought of Stuart 'Smelly' Kelly, and the 400 lb. tuba player who sat behind her in English, and the kid from Engineering Club who wore the same Zelda t-shirt every day. She thought of the way that guys use the bathroom, and the way that they…have to get a bit more intimate with themselves than girls do.

 _Oh my God. I've been touching vicarious penis for the past two months._

Dabbing at her pants, she tried to get the thought out of her head, but the harder she tried, the more questionable penises she thought of.

There was Dan Ostenkirk who supposedly got herpes from a cheerleader over in St. Louis Park. There was Kyle Who Never Stopped Talking About Comic Books. There was the kid who always carried around a briefcase full of Cheetos. There was BJ Johnson who just really fit his name. And vicariously, she had likely touched every single one of their penises!

 _This is it. I'm transferring to an all-girls school, and I'm never touching another guy ever again_.

 _Not even Adam_.

….

Her pants now dry, when she headed back Charlie and Dwayne's room, she _told_ herself she wouldn't make a big deal out of this epiphany.

It was, after all, a bit silly.

And gross.

So gross.

So gross that she couldn't possibly keep it to herself.

"Why didn't anybody ever mention that the sink in Schlagel hadn't been working?" She finally asked, her sense of decorum no match for the angst of her realization.

"Well, because we all knew that." Dwayne reminded her in his Texas drawl.

"Not _all_ of us, Dwayne."

"Oh. Right." He shrugged and went back to working on the English assignment he'd been milling over all afternoon; the task of describing the Odessa oil fields a far more interesting challenge than any discussion of bathroom sinks.

"So…nobody was washing their hands?"

"Well, I always keep hand sanitizer in my backpack." Kenny pointed out, much to Portman's amusement.

"Fag."

"If 'not being disgusting' makes me a fag, feel free to come suck my dick."

"That was pretty fag-ish, man."

"That was the point, dumbass."

"The point is that you're a fag?"

"The point is that you're a dumbass, dumbass."

"Yeah, well at least I'm not a fag who goes around washing my hands all the time."

"You are definitely never borrowing my pencil ever again…"

"Shut up, Jackie Chan. I'll borrow whatever I want."

Before long, the two were rolling on the ground, Portman torturing Kenny by putting his unwashed hands all over his face.

To Julie, it was obvious that nobody was yet grasping the seriousness of the situation.

"Don't you get it? Do you all realize how much vicarious penis I've been touching?"

Pulling himself out of Kenny's grasp, Portman's eyes now lit up with pride.

"That's pretty hot! You can vicariously touch my penis anytime you like, baby."

.

 _Fuuuuuck_.

.

For everybody but Portman, the air seemed to drain out of the room.

Adam sat against Charlie's bed, his arms crossed, and his eyes as unwelcoming as usual.

Under the _best_ of circumstances, he could be a formidable presence to Duck activities; his typical disposition only a few notches above his father's.

Though he didn't mean to come off as so forbidding, to the rest of the Ducks, the 'Her name's Julie, not babe' moment was still fresh in their minds...as was the time sophomore year when he and Crawford Wellesley were overheard making fun of Portman's lifted pickup truck.

Silence reverberated against the concrete walls as everyone thought back to the comments he and Crawford had made, and the crunch of Adam's nose that afternoon at practice.

 _This cannot be good_.

.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Adam just smiled.

"That is a _lot_ of dudes vicariously touching your penis."


	5. Captain

Captain

"The fuck?"

"Fuckin' Banksie? A fuckin' junior?"

"Like you were going to be captain?"

"The fuck you mean by that?"

"I mean the reason people call you 'Cunter' isn't because you're swimming in pussy. Stupid cunt."

 **.**

Five minutes earlier, before the beginning of practice, Coach Wilson had walked into the locker room and unceremoniously declared Adam the captain of the 1998-1999 Varsity Warriors. He then turned back around and went out to the ice, leaving the locker room in shambles as everyone processed his announcement.

For a brief moment, all was eerily calm, the still in the air similar to that of a quiet neighborhood before a tornado rips everything to pieces, sending shards of debris tearing through flesh and sheetrock.

Soon, that tornado came in the form of Hunter Bodencratz, a loudmouthed senior better known for his hair trigger temper than his hockey abilities. The moment that he threw his helmet at Adam's head, the entire room erupted, obscenities, fists, and hockey equipment all flying in equal measure. Before Adam even had time to recover from the surprise of being nailed in the forehead by the edge of a facemask, Hunter and Clay Mejier were rolling around on the concrete, pounding one another senseless. Soon, Adam and Charlie joined the fray, yelling at one another from a foot away as blood trickled down Charlie's lip, courtesy of a poorly aimed punch from Clay.

.

To most of the team, Adam seemed a sensible if unexpected choice for Captain—the role _was_ typically reserved for a senior, but he was both the star player and the closest thing to a bridge between the old line Warriors and the plucky Ducks.

However, to Clay, Hunter, and Charlie, the announcement signaled the end of a dream. For Hunter and Clay, it was the final nail in the coffin to their hopes of recognition—even in their senior year, they were destined to be overshadowed. And in Charlie's case, it felt like what little remained of his beloved Ducks had been turned to roasted canard, his successes with JV having done nothing to change the robotic, 'win at all costs' culture that he'd despised since childhood.

.

After all, for all that he respected about Adam as a person, as a hockey player, he never had warmed to what he considered a joyless approach to the sport. Try as he might, it was hard not to take it personally that Coach Wilson had gone with icy perfection over his own more free spirited approach to the game.

.

" _I_ was captain of Team USA!"

"Because coach wanted to rail your mom."

"Well, congratulations on having the mom who _nobody_ wants to rail."

"Whiny ass bitch"

"Fetal alcohol syndrome asshole"

"Will all of you stupid shits hurry up and get out on the ice?" Coach Wilson finally barked, standing in the doorway red faced. "The wife's got dinner going, and I want to get home before midnight!"

…..

"Shit, I don't know, maybe Charlie has a point."

Adam and Guy sat in their dorm room after practice, Guy at his desk trying to finish a book report for English as Adam sat in bed, surrounded by a pile of flashcards and study guides from A.P. Physics, his ankle propped on a pillow, courtesy of a particularly brutal practice.

 _On the upside, that was real teamwork between Charlie and Clay. Talk about knowing how to unite against a common enemy…_

With midterms nearing, the room had gone from pleasantly disheveled—beds unmade and few clothing items mindlessly strewn about, but otherwise tidy—to a veritable Superfund site, complete with a week old, half eaten cheeseburger on Guy's desk, and an abandoned carton of melted Haagen Dazs under Adam's bed. Despite the near freezing temperatures outside, the two had the window open, willing to brave hypothermia if it meant airing out the stench of old cafeteria food and unwashed gym clothes that had started to permeate the room.

"I mean, fuck." Adam continued, zipping his fleece North Face for extra warmth as he shuffled about the bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position.

 _Couldn't they have at least laid off my ribs?_

"There's no way this would be happening if _Mr. Heart of the Team_ was captain."

Guy chuckled for a moment, then just shrugged.

"If Charlie's the heart of the team, we need a cardiologist. He can't do shit without a coach who's practically willing to jerk him off, and I don't see Wilson doing that."

"I don't _want_ to see Wilson doing that!"

Guy shuddered at the image.

"God, thanks, Cakeeater."

"No problem."

"Seriously, though." Guy paused, trying to think of the words that would properly reconcile their friend's leadership qualities with his flaws as varsity captain. "As the Duck captain? As JV captain? No offense, but dude's got you beat. Send him to public school. Shit, send him anywhere other than here or Shattuck, and once the snobs quit clutching their polo ponies, he's good. He's fun. He _usually_ has a good personality. He's good at motivating people. If you're wanting a decent season and for everyone to have a good time—"

"Great pep talk there."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you."

"Okay, seriously." Guy pointed out, still looking down at his copy of _Tortilla Flat_. "No offense, but you make a person count down the days until they can retire from the NHL and never set foot on the ice again."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, but you're also how they _get_ to the NHL.

"That's the thing." He continued. "Blake. Breck. St. Paul Central. You're playing to have a good time. Maybe impress a few girls or whatever. But here or Shattuck? You don't come here to have fun. You're here to see where it can get you. And Charlie doesn't get that...to him, it's still about having fun and being best friends with your teammates, which isn't really the point here."

"I guess."

"Charlie's fun hockey. He's _good_ hockey. But you're flawless hockey, and that's what gets a person to the pros."

"Maybe."

Adam went back to his study guide, doing his best to memorize yet another equation. In the back of his mind, he still thought about what Guy had said.

About where the flawless approach to hockey had gotten everybody.

He thought about the way that his dad would come home from work at eight, only to spend the next three hours in his study, doing more work. He thought about the fact that Scott was already on his fifth knee surgery; 24 years old, overweight, and nary a high school diploma to his name. Sixteen years of year-round hockey just to sell coke and work construction.

He also thought about the fact that he himself had been through enough bottles of Lortab and Vicodin to supply a small country, with no guarantees that any of it would ever pay off.

"What if flawless hockey isn't worth it?" He finally asked, staring down at a hangnail on his thumb.

"Don't know."

"Do _you_ think it is?"

Guy paused, drumming his pencil against the book as Adam's question hung in the air.

"Maybe." He finally shrugged. "Depends on how things turn out. Do we make it to the pros, or do we end up jacking off to sales reps like our dads?"

"You already do that."

"So do you."

"Good point."

….

The next morning, Charlie cringed as he looked in the mirror-his lip was split, and the black eye he'd ended up with courtesy of Hunter Bodencratz's fist had swollen to the point of grotesque. Though he was sure some girls had a Florence Nightingale fantasy, he doubted Linda was one of them...and even if she was, he suspected she would want an explanation first.

An explanation that, in the harsh light of morning, no longer sounded _quite_ so sympathetic.

 _Well you see, Linda, Hunter thought that Coach Wilson should have made him captain, and I thought he should make me captain, so I might have tackled him during warm ups, and he might have responded by beating my face in…really, it's what any sensible person would have done._

Brushing out his wavy brown shag, he sighed, then grabbed his backpack and headed out the door.

There wasn't going to be any hiding his swollen eye, and as tempting as it was to concoct a more sympathetic story, the truth was going to come out.

This was Eden Hall.

When it came to hockey, the truth _always_ came out...usually gaining a few flourishes along the way.

 _By the end of the day, they'll be saying that I tried to stab Hunter with my skates, and that he beat me into a coma_.

.

Rushing down the stairs and through the courtyard to get to the dining hall before they stopped serving breakfast, his mind was still consumed with what he would tell Linda when he ran into a certain preppy captain.

Literally.

"You okay, Charlie?"

 _Oh shit_.

Regaining his balance, Charlie could feel his heart sink as he looked up at his longtime friend.

There Adam was, standing in all of his perfectly groomed glory-khakis, sweater, blazer, scarf, boat shoes, _and a set of shining metal crutches_.

 _"I'm the worst friend ever."_ He thought to himself, the wind nipping at his ears.

There was no need to ask what happened.

He could still see every second of yesterday's practice in his mind, including the moment when he and Clay teemed up for an illegal two-man hit on their own teammate. As soon as Adam careened towards the ice in one direction, and his foot went in the other, he and Clay both knew what a stupid thing they had done. Unfortunately by then, it was too late.

Adam had limped off the ice, muttering 'fucking dumbasses' under his breath.

For a brief moment, all eyes turned to he and Clay; the entire team shooting daggers at the two morons who'd executed such a brilliant idea.

And then, everyone went back to fighting with one another, their injured center the last thing on anyone's mind as they name-called and argued over who was the biggest dipshit.

.

Performing a mental inventory, Charlie sized up the situation.

The crutches were a bad sign.

The crutches were a very, very bad sign. There was definitely no way in hell that they were a good thing.

On the other hand, the boat shoes and khakis were a pretty solid check in the 'not the end of the world' column. Also reassuring was the fact that Adam wasn't literally beating him to death with said crutches.

And, for that matter, as quickly as word tended to travel at hockey-obsessed Eden Hall, it was a good sign that Charlie had made it to the courtyard in the first place, rather than having been murdered by an angry fan the second he stepped out his bedroom door.

 _Not that I wouldn't have deserved it_.

.

"So…how bad is the ankle?" He asked, staring down at the damp concrete that he wished would swallow him whole.

 _I reallllly screwed up_.

"Heh, a little sore, but not bad." Adam shrugged. The trainer said to stay off it for a day or two, and to try to take it easy for a few more after that, but I should be fine by game time."

"Damn. I'm uh, I'm really, really sorry."

As Adam looked at his obviously remorseful friend, a smile overtook his face.

"It's cool, man—as much as it pains me to think of sleeping through those 5 A.M. practices all week, I'll have lots of time to work on forgiveness. From my nice comfy bed, with the really good pillows, and extra comfortable mattress that my parents bought…"

"Screw you."

"By the way, my room is kind of a mess, and since I can't exactly clean it right now, what with my delicate condition and all…"

"Tell your parents to send their cleaning lady over!"

"I think you'd look really pretty in a French maid's outfit. The little white apron and white ruffle-y collar would really set off your hair—"

"You're making me feel less guilty by the second here."

"Oh, the pain!" He moaned dramatically, the mischievous sparkle in his eye giving him away. "I think I'm dying, Charlie. Will you at least tell Julie I loved her?"

"I'll show you dying, Cakeeater!" Charlie responded, reaching over and mussing his friend's perfectly combed hair.

"Cocksucker."

"Faggot."

"Queer."

"We really cool?" Charlie asked again after a second, a bit of guilt still gnawing at him.

"What do you think, dumbass?"


	6. Thad

Thad

"You don't get it. You have Adam."

"So?"

For the past three weeks, Connie and Thad Coker had been talking more and more; finally exchanging phone numbers and hanging out during their shared free period. Though they hadn't yet _done_ anything, Guy had taken note of this newfound closeness.

When he gave her an ultimatum, Connie stuttered for a moment before realizing that maybe she didn't _want_ to be with her elementary school crush.

Maybe she wanted Thad.

.

Maybe she wanted Thad and his nice, tidy world; the one with two loving parents, and brother at University of Michigan, and a golden retriever named Sadie.

She thought about how in Thad's world, men worked in office towers, and kitchens had islands, and refrigerators had built-in ice makers. In _Thad's_ world, people could shop at Eddie Bauer without looking at the price tags.

In Thad's world, parents never lost their houses.

And cars always ran.

And moms never worked at strip clubs.

.

"So Adam has a perfect little life, and a perfect little future. Being around him is like living in a snow globe."

"Are we talking about the same person here?" Julie pointed out, transferring her shopping bag to her other hand as other shoppers milled by.

Passing the foodcourt, she could smell Cinnabon and pizza; perfection the furthest thing from her mind when she thought about Adam's family.

.

In _her_ mind, she could still see her trip over to the Banks' house the week before, complete with Bunny sprawled across the sofa in a bathrobe, drinking from a handle of Popov while Phil could be heard upstairs, slurring his words as he yelled at Scott over a stain on the rug.

 _I'm really holding out hope that he was adopted. Because if that's genetic.._.

.

"I mean, not like that." Connie clarified, glancing over at the window display in Abercrombie. "Like, no way I'd want to _be_ Adam. But like, you know, he's _Adam_. He's smart, and his parents have money. If he somehow doesn't go to the NHL, he'll probably go to Harvard and become a lawyer or something. So he's never _not_ going to have a good life."

"I mean, I guess, but Guy's going to have a good life, too."

"I hope so..." Connie agreed, walking towards The Body Shop in search of strawberry lip blam.

"He will. Besides, he's a lot smarter than Thad."

"I don't know. I think Thad wants to be a lawyer..."

"Thad makes worse grades than Erica Tate." Julie laughed, picking up a tester of White Musk body spray sitting out front on display. "I don't think he's going to be a lawyer."

"Yeah, but Erica slept with Mr. Anders. That's not really comparing apples to apples."

"I'm just saying..."

"Yeah, I know." Connie agreed with a sigh. "I'm just...I don't know. Thad isn't as like, as complicated. He's nice, and he has nice parents, and they go to Olive Garden every Thursday."

"That's true."


End file.
